Chapter Seven - London Rain
Harry bade Dumbledore to wait outside while he checked on Draco. Dumbledore seemed quite content to stand outside, inspecting the Protection Spells that had been cast, both by Percy and, more recently, Bill. Harry himself spoke the word that would allow him to pass into the room beyond, and, without waiting, strode in.
"Don't you knock?" Draco asked, annoyed. One would think he was still lord of the manor, and Harry a lowly servant who had done the wrong thing.
"Not for you," Harry retorted. "How the Hell did you get loose?" The bag sat at the end of the bed, and Draco's feet were free. His hands were still bound by the handcuffs, thankfully, and the spell Harry had cast the night before kept him to the immediate area around the bed.
"Bad magic happens, Potter," Draco replied cryptically. "You of all people should know that." He wished Harry would leave. The sight of him, standing there in the morning shafts of sunlight coming from the window, his hair still all over the place, but glossy black as a raven's wing, and his eyes green as new leaves, was unsettling. Draco felt goosebumps rise on his arms.
Harry had obviously felt no such thing. Coming forward, he grabbed the bag from the end of the bed, and, with one hand holding it, managed to force Draco to hold his head still. He pushed the bag down over Draco's head, messing up the white-blonde hair even more, and managed to tie it on with a piece of string he'd kept in his pocket just in case. He then retied Draco feet, pushing him flat on the bed.
He gave Draco a bit of a push, just to make sure, and beckoned Dumbledore in. He walked in with dignity, making sure to shut the door behind him, and pointed his wand at his throat. In a voice that was nothing like his own, he said, "do you know why you're here, Malfoy?"
"You want information from me, don't you?" Draco asked woodenly, wishing the stupid bag wasn't back on his head. Even through it, he could feel Harry, whjo was standing at the end of the bed with his hands behind his back.
Draco had no idea whose voice it was, but he could tell it was male, and middle-aged. He wished he could see. The bag was wearing thin in places, but these were near his mouth, making it easeier to breathe than see.
"Information? Well, that wasn't our original idea, but if you have any useful information you want to share with us - no? I didn't think so. We are merely keeping you here until school begins again in a week, to stop you joining your aunt Bellatrix and learning the Dark Arts. We found out from a useful source in your mother's house that you had been forced to leave. I know why, but nobody else does, and if you don't wish them to know, they won't."
Why was Dumbledore being so polite? Harry wondered. If it were him, he'd pribably have told Draco that he was a prisoner, and he had little chance of escaping, and would only be released if he shut up and stopped being such a damned prat.
"I'll find out who you are," Draco growled. "When I get out of here, I swear to Merlin I'll find out who you are, and I'll tear you to pieces."
"Ah, but you won't, sir," Dumbledore replied, the amusement obvious in his voice. "You see, you will be escorted on the Knight Bus back to Hogwarts, and there you will have a Memory Charm placed on you to make sure you cannot find out where you stayed, or who you were with."
He smiled, almost to himself, and gave Harry a curious glance before saying, "well, that concludes our interview, Mr Malfoy. Remember what I have told you, and if you want to help us, just say the word."
He turned and left, motioning Harry to follow him. When they were both outside, he said, "I am satisfied with the way you are trating him. Do not physically harm him, and do not let him out of that room. His aunt searches daily for him, and will until school returns. It has been rumoured that Voldemort has allowed her to leave his service in the company of other Death Eaters to find him."
Harry nodded, and locked the door behind them. He didn't trust humself to say anything. But he said it anyway. "Sir, this is just - Malfoy doesn't appear that dangerous. Doesn't it seem wrong to lock up a person like that?"
Dumbledore looked at him with a mixture of pity and alarm. "It is wrong, Harry, but you must think of Draco as either Lucius' son or Bellatrix's nephew - a potentially lethal operative of Voldemort."
Pausing, he seemed to weigh his next words carefully "Harry, I would suggest that you did not continue to watch over Draco, whether or not he finds out he is staying with the Weasleys. Trustme, but stay away from him."
Harry nodded, confused. Something was going on here, and he didn't like it. But when he returned to the kitchen, and joined the others in a game of Exploding Snap while Mr and Mrs Weasley talked with Dumbledore, he put it firmly form his mind.
Dumbledore was just trying to protect him, that was all.
Narcissa Malfoy looked like a scoiety matron - one of those elegant, fashionable women that can organise servants and houses with brilliant prescision, but are otherwise useless.
It was part of a sophisticated veneer that hid the darkest parts of her. Raised to worship Voldemort, Narcissa lacked the key emotion that ran rampant in her sister Bellatrix's veins - hatred. A pampered, spoilt child, she had wilfully avoided Muggles and non-supporters of her lord, which in turn had rendered her absolutely hopeless as a Death Eater.
However, she still fervently believed in Voldemort and his Death Eaters, so marrying Lucius Malfoy had been a brilliant stroke. She may not have loved him at the beginning, nor did she feel any particularly strong emotion for him now, but he was a devoted Death Eater, an accomplished liar, and a wonderful provider. Most of what the Malfoy family owned now had been improved on by Lucius Malfoy's ties to the Ministry, and now that that was through, he waited patiently in Azkaban for Voldemort to set him free.
Her son Draco, on the other hand - Narcissa loved her son with a passion that was almost greater than he belief in Voldemort. He looked like an angel, or so she believed, and he would grow up knowing exactly what it was to stand behind Voldemort. She had been proud that he didn't stand on good terms with those who had turned their backs on Voldemort when he had fallen to Harry Potter, people like the Parkinsons, with their daughter Pansy, or the Bulstrodes, with that absolute troll Millicent.
No, Draco's friends had been people like Blaise Zabini, a fine, upstanding boy whose parents were as devoted to Voldemort as the Malfoys.
Then she had found out the reason he lacked friendship with girls like Pansy and Millicent. And exactly how close he was to Blaise. It had nearly torn her apart. Grief, guilt and shame raced through her, and she had stood in his doorway, calling him names she had no idea she would ever use.
Maybe she would have let him stay - had it not been for what she found out next. Not what, who.Who the light in his life was, the reason life was worth living. He may have had a physical relationship with Blaise, but his emotions were clearly elsewhere.
Resting with the Boy-Who-Lived. Narcissa had wept for her son then, knowing that he would have to leave, that she could never allow anyone, even if they were her flesh and blood, her devotion and only child, to live in her house while they were in any way disloyal to Voldemort.
Her last favour had been to grant discretion and silence, and make up a cover story that would explain her son's absence from home. It would mean lying to her husband, her friends, and the people who, like her, were truly loyal to Voldemort, but he was her son. She'd had to do it.
She'd believed she would never hear from him, nor about him again. Certainly she would refuse to see him.
But now, her sister sat across the table from her, and she looked both angry and slightly worried. Behind her sat Macnair, to one side, Goyle, to the other, and Ciaran Parkinson stood between them.
None of them looked impressed, and Bellatrix looked as if she was barely restraining her fury toward Narcissa. She leant forward, and imbued every word with menace.
"Where is Draco?" she asked, and Narcissa blanched.
Harry bade Dumbledore to wait outside while he checked on Draco. Dumbledore seemed quite content to stand outside, inspecting the Protection Spells that had been cast, both by Percy and, more recently, Bill. Harry himself spoke the word that would allow him to pass into the room beyond, and, without waiting, strode in.
"Don't you knock?" Draco asked, annoyed. One would think he was still lord of the manor, and Harry a lowly servant who had done the wrong thing.
"Not for you," Harry retorted. "How the Hell did you get loose?" The bag sat at the end of the bed, and Draco's feet were free. His hands were still bound by the handcuffs, thankfully, and the spell Harry had cast the night before kept him to the immediate area around the bed.
"Bad magic happens, Potter," Draco replied cryptically. "You of all people should know that." He wished Harry would leave. The sight of him, standing there in the morning shafts of sunlight coming from the window, his hair still all over the place, but glossy black as a raven's wing, and his eyes green as new leaves, was unsettling. Draco felt goosebumps rise on his arms.
Harry had obviously felt no such thing. Coming forward, he grabbed the bag from the end of the bed, and, with one hand holding it, managed to force Draco to hold his head still. He pushed the bag down over Draco's head, messing up the white-blonde hair even more, and managed to tie it on with a piece of string he'd kept in his pocket just in case. He then retied Draco feet, pushing him flat on the bed.
He gave Draco a bit of a push, just to make sure, and beckoned Dumbledore in. He walked in with dignity, making sure to shut the door behind him, and pointed his wand at his throat. In a voice that was nothing like his own, he said, "do you know why you're here, Malfoy?"
"You want information from me, don't you?" Draco asked woodenly, wishing the stupid bag wasn't back on his head. Even through it, he could feel Harry, whjo was standing at the end of the bed with his hands behind his back.
Draco had no idea whose voice it was, but he could tell it was male, and middle-aged. He wished he could see. The bag was wearing thin in places, but these were near his mouth, making it easeier to breathe than see.
"Information? Well, that wasn't our original idea, but if you have any useful information you want to share with us - no? I didn't think so. We are merely keeping you here until school begins again in a week, to stop you joining your aunt Bellatrix and learning the Dark Arts. We found out from a useful source in your mother's house that you had been forced to leave. I know why, but nobody else does, and if you don't wish them to know, they won't."
Why was Dumbledore being so polite? Harry wondered. If it were him, he'd pribably have told Draco that he was a prisoner, and he had little chance of escaping, and would only be released if he shut up and stopped being such a damned prat.
"I'll find out who you are," Draco growled. "When I get out of here, I swear to Merlin I'll find out who you are, and I'll tear you to pieces."
"Ah, but you won't, sir," Dumbledore replied, the amusement obvious in his voice. "You see, you will be escorted on the Knight Bus back to Hogwarts, and there you will have a Memory Charm placed on you to make sure you cannot find out where you stayed, or who you were with."
He smiled, almost to himself, and gave Harry a curious glance before saying, "well, that concludes our interview, Mr Malfoy. Remember what I have told you, and if you want to help us, just say the word."
He turned and left, motioning Harry to follow him. When they were both outside, he said, "I am satisfied with the way you are trating him. Do not physically harm him, and do not let him out of that room. His aunt searches daily for him, and will until school returns. It has been rumoured that Voldemort has allowed her to leave his service in the company of other Death Eaters to find him."
Harry nodded, and locked the door behind them. He didn't trust humself to say anything. But he said it anyway. "Sir, this is just - Malfoy doesn't appear that dangerous. Doesn't it seem wrong to lock up a person like that?"
Dumbledore looked at him with a mixture of pity and alarm. "It is wrong, Harry, but you must think of Draco as either Lucius' son or Bellatrix's nephew - a potentially lethal operative of Voldemort."
Pausing, he seemed to weigh his next words carefully "Harry, I would suggest that you did not continue to watch over Draco, whether or not he finds out he is staying with the Weasleys. Trustme, but stay away from him."
Harry nodded, confused. Something was going on here, and he didn't like it. But when he returned to the kitchen, and joined the others in a game of Exploding Snap while Mr and Mrs Weasley talked with Dumbledore, he put it firmly form his mind.
Dumbledore was just trying to protect him, that was all.
Narcissa Malfoy looked like a scoiety matron - one of those elegant, fashionable women that can organise servants and houses with brilliant prescision, but are otherwise useless.
It was part of a sophisticated veneer that hid the darkest parts of her. Raised to worship Voldemort, Narcissa lacked the key emotion that ran rampant in her sister Bellatrix's veins - hatred. A pampered, spoilt child, she had wilfully avoided Muggles and non-supporters of her lord, which in turn had rendered her absolutely hopeless as a Death Eater.
However, she still fervently believed in Voldemort and his Death Eaters, so marrying Lucius Malfoy had been a brilliant stroke. She may not have loved him at the beginning, nor did she feel any particularly strong emotion for him now, but he was a devoted Death Eater, an accomplished liar, and a wonderful provider. Most of what the Malfoy family owned now had been improved on by Lucius Malfoy's ties to the Ministry, and now that that was through, he waited patiently in Azkaban for Voldemort to set him free.
Her son Draco, on the other hand - Narcissa loved her son with a passion that was almost greater than he belief in Voldemort. He looked like an angel, or so she believed, and he would grow up knowing exactly what it was to stand behind Voldemort. She had been proud that he didn't stand on good terms with those who had turned their backs on Voldemort when he had fallen to Harry Potter, people like the Parkinsons, with their daughter Pansy, or the Bulstrodes, with that absolute troll Millicent.
No, Draco's friends had been people like Blaise Zabini, a fine, upstanding boy whose parents were as devoted to Voldemort as the Malfoys.
Then she had found out the reason he lacked friendship with girls like Pansy and Millicent. And exactly how close he was to Blaise. It had nearly torn her apart. Grief, guilt and shame raced through her, and she had stood in his doorway, calling him names she had no idea she would ever use.
Maybe she would have let him stay - had it not been for what she found out next. Not what, who.Who the light in his life was, the reason life was worth living. He may have had a physical relationship with Blaise, but his emotions were clearly elsewhere.
Resting with the Boy-Who-Lived. Narcissa had wept for her son then, knowing that he would have to leave, that she could never allow anyone, even if they were her flesh and blood, her devotion and only child, to live in her house while they were in any way disloyal to Voldemort.
Her last favour had been to grant discretion and silence, and make up a cover story that would explain her son's absence from home. It would mean lying to her husband, her friends, and the people who, like her, were truly loyal to Voldemort, but he was her son. She'd had to do it.
She'd believed she would never hear from him, nor about him again. Certainly she would refuse to see him.
But now, her sister sat across the table from her, and she looked both angry and slightly worried. Behind her sat Macnair, to one side, Goyle, to the other, and Ciaran Parkinson stood between them.
None of them looked impressed, and Bellatrix looked as if she was barely restraining her fury toward Narcissa. She leant forward, and imbued every word with menace.
"Where is Draco?" she asked, and Narcissa blanched.